Thursday, July 21, 2016

Deep South USA - Blue Ridge Road Trip

I have been quietly interested in the Southern USA ever
since I touched upon the American Civil War when studying history as a kid.
This interest has grown over the years through the drip-feed of innumerous
cultural references, chance meetings with Southerners, and periodic delves into
the history, culture, and society of the USA.

The incentive of visiting an old
mate who married a Southern belle and settled in that fascinating corner of the
world was all the excuse I needed to come explore.

The old mate was (and is) Adam, the belle Paget. Together
with two lovely children, Iris and Tanner, they live in a beautiful, affluent
suburb of Atlanta, Georgia. With the keen hospitality for which the South is
famed and being wonderfully forgiving of the severe reduction in serenity that
it entailed, they put Chris, me, and our three little ones up in their house
before, after, and in between two road trips into the South. The first of these
was to the mountains.

TO APPALACHIA

On Paget’s recommendation, we set off on a north-easterly direction in
search of Asheville, North Carolina. The first thing that struck me as we
turned onto the 10-lane highway out of the city was the scale of the everyday
automobiles. Our Grand Cherokee was the biggest car I have ever rented (the
airport rental company had suggested it was too small for us!), but it was
nothing compared to all these giant SUVs and 6-wheeler pick-ups ploughing the
road with a penchant for undertaking.

The second thing was just how green everything was. Verdant,
steroid-fuelled green, dominated by huge trees that hemmed in the road for mile
after mile. For some reason, I had expected Georgia to be dry and dusty cotton
land, but instead we found what felt like temperate rain forest. To my amazement, I later discovered that
this forest stretched in an almost uninterrupted line for over 1000 miles all
the way to Canada. Who said all the wilderness was out West?

Our long day at the wheel was only broken by two very
different, but each quintessentially American, pit-stops. The first was
to a
highway Waffle House. An American institution I had never heard of,
serving
cholesterol-fuelled diner food and waffles to some of the more skint and
hungover members of society since God knows when. It sounds strange,
but visiting
this small roadside diner complete with distinctly shifty looking guests
and a
waitress who slipped effortlessly between giving the locals an earful
and
acting sweet as pie to us was one of my top cultural experiences of our
trip.
Akin, I imagine, to an American visiting the UK and stepping into a
middle-of-nowhere pub full of half-pissed locals.

Southerners do indeed love their God...

...and their Guns

Finally turning off the highway onto smaller roads, we found
more forest, interspersed with farmland, as we briefly crossed into
South
Carolina. This was where we took our second stop, in the small
middle-of-nowhere cross-roads town of Walhalla. I was in heaven. As well
as the gun shop,
multiple Baptist churches, and pick-ups to burn, this two-horse town is
home to
a dainty, prim little café run by people that are so inordinately
friendly that
it set my cynical European mind on edge. The South really is different.

On we went, back through the forests and into North Carolina,
before arriving just before dark at the little piece of vintage Americana we
were to call home for the next few days. A small wooden cabin at an original
1920’s motor lodge (the precursor to motels). Though just off I-25 and only a
couple of miles north of Ashville, we found ourselves surrounded by towering
woodland, cardinals, chipmunks, and, our kids aside, quiet. WATER FROM ABOVE, WATER FROM BELOWAbove all else, we had come here for the Blue Ridge Parkway.
A highly unconventional road which owes its existence to desperate times and
grand gestures. Part of FDR’s New Deal to provide work to the unemployed masses
and give a Keynesian kickstart to the US economy ravaged by the depths of the
Great Depression. The Parkway stretches 469 miles, snaking south from Virginia
to the Great Smoky Mountains at the very edge North Carolina. Apart from its
roots, what makes this road stand out is its extraordinary setting and
protection. It purposely clings to the higher reaches of the Blue Ridge
Mountains and is protected by Federal law as a National Park. No HGVs, gas
stations, lights, or traffic, just glorious open road cutting in and out of the
clouds.

The college town of Asheville is the main stop at the heart
of the Parkway, nestled in a valley famed for its beauty. When we awoke the
first morning, we could see none of it. Dark clouds had closed in to swallow up
the mountains and it was pissing it down relentlessly. We decided to brave the
Parkway anyhow. We chose south, climbed out of Asheville, and were delighted to
join the Parkway in a gap in the clouds. We were greeted with a magnificent
view back across a river valley and out to the forests. It lasted all of 5
minutes and then the weather closed back in, drearier than before. Within half
an hour, we could barely see 10m in front of us, enveloped as we were in dense,
dripping fog.

We cut our losses and quit the highway, descending on a
small road which twisted through the Pisgah National Forest in a southerly
direction. The mist slowly cleared until we reached a large waterfall (Looking
Glass Falls), bursting through the trees and dropping 18m into a splash pool.
The kids had seen nothing like it and were happily over-awed. On we headed to the
town of Brevard, nestled in the wonderfully named Transylvania County. We
settled in for lunch at a seriously quirky 50’s diner, where we were informed by a
ridiculously sincere yet friendly local that we would find even better
waterfalls in the Dupont State Forest, only a few miles out of town.

Given the weather we had little to lose, so we drove on,
parked up and, in spite of the incessant drizzle, slapped Ariadne in the
baby-bjorn, gave each of the boys a mini umbrella, and headed off round a
well-marked trail through dense forest. It was awesome.
We trekked for an hour or so, following a 3-mile trail next
to a river that intermittently found dramatic ways to transverse a troublesome
landscape. First a sheer drop, where the whole river poured over a ridge and
dropped 40m in a violent cascade.

Then a series of smaller, but no less
beautiful, falls, funnelled by large chunks of granite. Climbing down a steep
set of steps, we were able to get right up close and personal, feeling the
spray. The rain then closed in and we ended our adventure jogging through the
trees to our car with the kids on our shoulders huddling under umbrellas.RIDING THE RIDGE NORTH

Fortunately, the weather improved and we spent the next two
days exploring the Parkway to the north, entering on the first day up a rather
interesting dirt trail that made me happy we had a 4x4. Once atop the Parkway,
we were greeted with the most astonishing views of thick forests falling down
from the mountains and out over the valleys, sporadically carpeted with thin streaks
of pure white cloud.

As the smooth, empty road meandered high up on the ridge for
mile after mile, the Appalachians threw up one amazing vista after another. A truly
majestic part of the world.

Like so many National Parks in the USA, the Parkway is
brilliantly organised, with maps, resting stops, and countless trails. We took
the three small ones up one of these trails which led through Craggy Gardens.

Though
only 2 and 3, the boys trekked a full couple of miles up hill through
increasingly spooky terrain to the summit of Craggy Dome at 6,085 feet. As we climbed,
the trees shrunk to gnarled, oxygen-starved beings covered in dripping moss and
lichen. The clouds closed in to a claustrophobic mist, muffling sounds and
enveloping whatever lurked within the otherworldly undergrowth.

By the time we reached the summit we had climbed into the clouds. A surreal, but fun experience. Staring out from the peak at wisps of white-washed nothingness all around.

On our way down from the Parkway, we chose to take back
roads and found ourselves in rural Appalachia. Sticking God radio on the stereo
(I kid you not, the first station I found had linked Hilary Clinton, gay
marriage, and the coming apocalypse within 30 seconds), we passed through small
villages cut out of the woods, lined with Baptist churches and the odd Confederate
flag.

This was real, hard, red, back country, which shared little in
common with the isolated blue speck of Asheville. Each evening we
discovered a
bit more of the joys of this laid back college town. Fantastic food,
craft beer, and chilled-out atmosphere came as standard, alongside a
fair chunk of
interesting architecture. The latter, at least in part, thanks to money
that
poured in from the late 19th century onwards from the locally
resident Vanderbilts (a big local tourist attraction is their grand country
house of Biltmore, the largest privately owned house in the USA). RIDING THE RIDGE SOUTH

Taking the Blue Ridge Parkway south-bound, the sensational
views stretched on and on, reaching a crescendo at and beyond Mount Pisgah, where the road clung to a cliff edge at an ever greater height and stark
rocky formations littered the forests below.

We stopped off for a snack lunch at the foot of the Waterrock
Knob Trail. Starting at a thinning out of the ridge where you could see out to
the East and West, the trail headed in the latter direction up and through the
forest. The trees then receded as the path strung back and forth up a steep
ascent. The boys clambered up without any concern, clutching on steps, rails, and roots.

Approaching the 6000 ft plus summit, the forest thickened around us.
A little out of breath we made it to the top and strung out on a bench handily
positioned before a cliff edge and yet another stunning view. I was so
impressed with our two boys for trekking up the whole way.

We had the place all to ourselves in the sunshine. It was
marvellous. Relatively care free, I left Christina to keep our 3 year old and 9
month old away from the cliff edge, and took our 2 year old into the woods for
a pee. As he was doing his business in a small clearing, I noticed something
more than a little disconcerting. By his side was a massive paw print in the
mud, much like a dog’s but on a multiplied scale. Further, it looked VERY fresh - deep, clean edged and untouched by the recent rains.

My mind immediately jumping to the rather large black bears
that frequent these parts, I picked up my boy, headed back to the others and,
deciding that there were advantages to explaining the situation later, hurried
my small family back down the trail.

When back in the jeep it is fair to say that my other half
was not impressed that I had waited until after the event to tell her, meaning
she did not get the chance to see the print. An awesome reaction, but at least
I had taken a pic to show her.

ON TO THE GREAT SMOKY’S

The plan was to follow the Parkway all the way to its
Southern terminus. Unfortunately, the small matter of landslides put paid to
that. This was announced by an unexpected gate across the road. There was
nothing else to do but back track a good half hour and head down into the
valleys to find another road.
While this was disappointing, the Blue Ridge Parkway
redeemed itself with a parting gift as we made our exit. A massive raptor
swooped down in front of us through the trees, before sharing a sharp turn in
the road just meters in front of us. It was startling.

Who can spot the raptor?

We ploughed along the local roads, having that slightly
dirty sensation of being surrounded by everyday life after touching wilder
places. We eventually made it to the odd, rather sad town of Cherokee. A tiny
enclave for the Cherokee Indians to sell tat and gambling in a place that was
once the heart of their rich territories before most of the nation were
forcibly resettled (where they did not perish on the journey) in the wake of a
local gold rush to land far away that the white man did not want. This is part
of what has become known as the “Trail of Tears”, a scar on the conscience of the
US. I felt more than a pang of guilt as I passed through in my Chevrolet Grand
Cherokee.

We soon moved on and arrived at the goal of our long day driving
from Asheville. The Great Smokey Mountains National Park.

Thanks to a quirk of the last ice age, among other factors,
this over 2000 square km mountain park is remarkably bio-diverse. Wildlife from
colder northern climes were pushed south by the last great ice age and, unlike
in the rest of the region, managed to stay put when the glaciers receded (thanks
to the high altitude and unique climate) and now share the park with more
natural southern dwellers.

I am a little sad to say that we only popped our noses a few
miles into the park, rather than passing all the way through to Tennessee or
exploring its wilder parts. One for next time. We did though encounter some
great wildlife on our mini trek through the forest and along a clear water river
bank. Chipmunks, wild turkeys, squirrels, deer, and, best of all, a group of ground
hog. I am not sure who was more excited, the boys, Chris, or me. OK, probably
me!

Before jumping back into the car for our long trek back to
Atlanta, we just had time to go see a park ranger and ask the key question of
the day. She carefully considered our photo and, to my caveated delight,
confirmed that it was a black bear print!